


Fight Me

by Death_by_Sword



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Athelnar - Freeform, Athelstan snaps, Frottage, M/M, Minor Violence, Season 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-06 04:30:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1844455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Death_by_Sword/pseuds/Death_by_Sword
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athelstan asks Ragnar to become a free man. Ragnar makes Athelstan angry. Sexy times ensue. Feelings are also involved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fight Me

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a prompt on the Vikings kink meme that asked for Athelstan snaps and hits Ragnar. The first bit of dialogue is taken from a scene during season 1 but this is slightly AU. This is my first fic so any errors in the writing are mine.

The morning had begun like any other on the farm. Athelstan and Ragnar had woken up before dawn and gone out to fish in the bay, and after rowing the boat and hauling the nets, Ragnar had laid down on the bench to rest while Athelstan began preparing the food. They had worked quietly on the boat in the early morning fog; Athelstan’s thoughts calm at the till even as he gazed upon Ragnar’s strong, tan hands working the rows and nets. Ragnar had affected Athelstan from the moment they had locked eyes at Lindisfarne. Athelstan had felt a connection to Ragnar as strong as his connection to God from that moment. Lust was part of it, to Athelstan’s shame, and perhaps love was too. His lustful feelings had only grown since the night he had arrived at the farm and been asked to join Ragnar and Lagertha for sex. Lagertha’s bare thigh had affected him, but what really stayed with him, burned into his memory was the image of Ragnar completely nude, his thick and long cock bobbing half hard between his thighs, swelling with excitement as he moved closer to Athelstan, as he bent his head closer to Athelstan to- Athelstan’s knife slips in the fish guts, uncomfortably close to his finger.

“May I ask you something,” Athelstan blurts out to Ragnar to distract himself from his dirty thoughts, “am I still your slave?” Athelstan asks, looking hopefully up from his work gutting the fish at the table.  
Ragnar, resting prostrate along the bench, turns his piercing gaze to Athelstan, and asks, “Does it matter?” At the eye contact Athelstan flushes, feeling his heart beat faster and the familiar stirring in his stomach that happens whenever Ragnar unleashes his gaze upon him. Ragnar’s jaw clenches though, revealing his irritation at the question. Athelstan pushes on though, the issue now in the forefront of his mind, and one he had pondered privately before.

“It matters because I’ve noticed that in your world, slaves are treated worse than dogs,”  
Ragnar inhales deeply with exasperation, attempting to hide his amusement as he responds, “do I treat you like a dog?”  
“It’s not my point, legally you could beat me to death – and there would be no penalty. Everyone else in your world is subject to the law.”  
“That’s just the way it is.”  
“A man can rape his female slave but not a free woman.”  
“It is true that we distinguish from those captured in battle and our own free men and women. In any case, why do you say ‘your world’? You live here now. This is your world. And I’ve never seen you try to escape.” Ragnar looks smug now, knowing he has hit a chord with Athelstan, as Athelstan looks down.  
“I’m less and less interested in trying to escape now, even if I could.” Athelstan confesses, his eyes slowly drawing back to Ragnar’s blue ones as they gaze up at the ceiling. Athelstan feels as though this is a sin, his love and respect for Ragnar and his family. But how could love ever be a sin, even if it was muddled by lustful thoughts for the man before him? He notices Ragnar’s strong and beautiful fingers begin to dance with the flickering flame of a candle on the shelf nearby, and even if the sight causes a jolt of lust in Athelstan it also causes a wave of weariness to settle over him – he feels as if he too is about to begin playing with fire, and far more dangerous than a weak candle flame. Still he moves around the workbench, wiping his hands clean as he walks to Ragnar.

“But I would like to be a free man.” His voice is steady, despite his nervousness, and for a moment Athelstan is proud of himself. Before he can shame himself for his sin of pride, Ragnar responds, “If it matters so much to you.”  
“It does,”  
Ragnar’s eyes never leave the flame that dances between his fingers as he slowly drawls out, “Well, you can wait until I will it so, or you can fight me for it.”  
“Fight you?” Athelstan chokes out, eyes wide with shock.  
“Yes,” Ragnar turns once again, his expression smug, so sure that Athelstan will shut up now and continue his work. All of a sudden, at that smug expression, a fire engulfs Athelstan from within, raising his blood and infuriating him.  
Maybe his frustration has built into this anger because he is caught in a limbo where he is a slave to his own inescapable lust for Ragnar - with no way to channel it - because he is also a slave to his vows, a slave to his own faith. Maybe his frustration is only because he is a slave to Ragnar, a heathen and savage, who he can’t despise, can only love, despite the murder of his brothers and the desecration of Lindisfarne. Maybe it is because Athelstan knows, deep in his heart that he will never best Ragnar in a fight, that the smug expression on Ragnar’s face is because Ragnar also knows it is true, and that Athelstan is trapped in Ragnar’s spell until Ragnar chooses to release him. Maybe his anger is due to all of these things.

Nevertheless, the anger in Athelstan boils over. In that second a moment of madness overcomes him and he reaches over to strike Ragnar across his face and his arm is coming down and Ragnar’s arm is coming up in defence and before either of them realise what has happened Ragnar has Athelstan pinned underneath him on the bench, the wrist of Athelstan’s traitorous hand gripped firmly in Ragnar’s own. Both men gape at each other in disbelief. 

Athelstan begins to stammer – an apology, a prayer, something in an attempt to recover from what he has done, what he cannot believe he has done – but Ragnar has a very different reaction. As Athelstan rasps out words, his eyes wild with shock, Ragnar’s eyes darken and his cock swells in his rough woollen breeches as the moment of impassioned struggle – with Athelstan! – Is registered in his mind and body. 

Athelstan is completely unaware of Ragnar’s own feelings, lost in his panic until Ragnar leans down and presses his lips to Athelstan’s. In that moment all of Athelstan’s panic, all of his fear is dispersed and replaced with the bone melting pleasure of Ragnar’s lips roughly rasping against his. The kiss is not gentle – no, Ragnar is now on fire, all of his own lust for the pretty priest being channelled into the movement of his lips and body. Athelstan gasps for air as Ragnar now begins clawing at Athelstan’s clothing, moving down to his neck with his kisses, his hips beginning to thrust against Athelstan’s. 

Athelstan’s neglected cock is fully hard now, harder than Athelstan has ever been in his life, as the ridge of Ragnar’s cock rubs against his through the layers of clothing they wear. Athelstan brings his arms up to Ragnar’s shoulders, gripping them as tightly as he can. 

Ragnar grins against his collarbone as a bite there brings out a moan in Athelstan, who draws his knees up on either side of Ragnar’s hips as Ragnar continues the rocking motion imitating sex. Athelstan looks down at Ragnar in surprise at the bite and upon seeing his sexy grin and fierce blue eyes is over come with another wave of lust. Shocking himself Athelstan grabs Ragnar’s face and draws his lips back to his own, moaning against him and thrusting his hips up to meet Ragnar’s. He feels something building in his cock, something he gets closer to with each thrust and the unbearable need he is feeling builds and builds until suddenly Athelstan is bursting, come rushing from his cock as throws his head back and screams “RAGNAR!” At Athelstan’s orgasm and the screaming of his name Ragnar’s orgasm comes at him by surprise, and he thrusts his hips against Athelstan’s one last time before the pleasure takes over him. 

Athelstan blinks away the bright lights from his vision as the quivers in his body begin to leave him. What has he just experienced? Was it heaven? Or God? He had spilled his seed before, in his sleep, and woken from dreams of the other monks in his youth with his shame dried between his legs, but the vague pleasure from those remembered dreams was nothing – nothing – compared to what he has just felt in Ragnar’s arms. 

Ragnar too is staring down at Athelstan in astonishment, wondering what had overcome him. He’s not worried about being caught – Lagertha and the children had travelled to visit Floki and Helga that day – but he can not believe that the connection he had felt to Athelstan the first day he had met him, the connection that causes his heart to quicken and his cock to swell, has culminated in this. And oh, it has culminated. Ragnar had never climaxed from rutting his clothed body against another clothed body – and he had never even had a sexual encounter with a man without a woman between them. If this simple act has resulted in such pleasure with his dear Athelstan, than the possibility of all the sex they could have, and the knowledge of how wonderful it would truly be races across Ragnar’s mind. 

He can see now that Athelstan too is realising the significance of their act, except instead of the look of wonder and bliss on his face, now doubt and shame are creeping across his features. Ragnar bends down and kisses Athelstan again, not to initiate sex (he’s spent) but to chase away the fears Athelstan’s selfish and weak God has instilled in him. As he pulls back from Athelstan he murmurs to him,  
“Well, you did not best me today, but perhaps after some training we will make a warrior out of you yet. You certainly have the spirit for it,” A nip to Athelstan’s lips punctuates the sentence. As Ragnar gazes down at him, with his mischievous grin and beautiful blue eyes, Athelstan mutters a prayer to God in Latin. Ragnar scowls and interrupts Athelstan, “if you want God to absolve you of your sin you need not worry, perhaps he has looked the other way,”  
“No,” Athelstan responds, “I want God to protect me from the lustful beast before me that I have unleashed,” Ragnar roars with laughter and Athelstan smiles back, his happiness pure and unburdened, at least for the rest of that day.

**Author's Note:**

> I hoped you like it! Feel free to let me know what you think in the comments below and if you would like any more Athelnar fics.


End file.
